I Dreamt I Was in Heaven_The Rampage of the Rufus Buck Gang

by Leonce Gaiter

Rufus continued furtively glancing. He paid Starr little attention.

  “You want to meet him?” Starr asked. The boy’s breath quickened. Now Starr had his full attention. Buck stared like a starving child at bread.

  “I think we should wait a while.” Starr spoke slowly, devising a plan. “Let me talk to Bill. Yeah, I know him. I’d call myself a friend—his only friend. I understand Bill. He trusts me.”

  “When?” Rufus asked.

  “Just give me time. Let me talk to him. It’ll be soon.”

  Rufus now stared openly into Bill’s cell, as if praying to it and awaiting its response. Starr moved to mimic the boy’s angle on the cell and all he could see were Bill’s boots up against the wall.

  “Why’d they make you a Trustee?” Starr asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rufus shrugged. “They didn’t at first. I just started doin’ it.”

  “Why?”

  “To meet Bill. To get to Murderer’s Row.”

  “Ever consider killin’ someone?” Starr smiled.

  Rufus stared blankly at him. “Got nothin’ against it I guess.”

  Starr examined the young, eager, full-to-bursting yet somehow impassive face. The boy was waiting for something. Waiting to come alive, seeking some charge, some strike of a match that would set him alight. Starr had never seen this bizarre combination of emptiness and pressure-to-the-breaking-point. It was simplicity as a mighty force. It intrigued him.

  “Go on,” Starr said. “Push your broom. I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

  “What you jawin’ about out there?” a voice hollered from within the cell. Rufus stood up straighter. His mouth opened and his eyes brightened with anticipation. It had to be Bill.

  “Go on,” Starr insisted, giving the boy a little shove. “Get.”

  Rufus did not take his eyes off the cell as he backed reluctantly down the hall.

  3

  At long intervals of time, out of millions of individuals reared in the same country and fed on nearly the same food, deviations of structure so strongly pronounced as to deserve to be called monstrosities arise;”

  - Charles Darwin

  “The Origin of Species”

  Judge Parker sat alone in his chambers, numbed. There was no other word to match his state. It was new to him. ‘Shock’ did not describe it. ‘Revulsion’ was closer but did not convey the fear. As he listened he had felt a rising in his gut, a dizzying inside that presaged nausea. What he saw before him spoke with the leg-kicking charm of a child describing picnics and romps in the wood, but instead she described murders and torture. She giggled at the pain inflicted. He wanted to touch her to convince himself that she was real. At first he chose not to believe. He questioned. He challenged. He denied. But with childish artlessness she shook her blonde head and repeated horror after horror with juvenile delight encased in a bruised beauty as if such monstrosities were a natural part of living. He literally felt chills as he sat imperceptibly shaking his bearded, white-haired head as if that small act of denial would make her and everything she represented disappear.

  He had been sitting here for minutes now. His clerk had entered and been summarily dismissed with no grace. The girl had been returned to the care of her matronly overseer. Judge Parker sincerely wondered if Mrs. Pinch was safe, but oddly felt she was. It had been an opportunity. A rare one, and she had taken it. She had reveled and luxuriated in it. An opportunity of blood and violence—of viciousness. Round and round these thoughts swirled and he could not stop them. In a vain attempt, he grabbed that book of Virgil Purefoy’s. He leafed through its pages, searching for something to divert his mind. Nothing seized him, so he stopped at a random page and began to read.

  As natural selection acts solely by the preservation of profitable modifications, each new form will tend in a fully-stocked country to take the place of, and finally to exterminate, its own less improved parent-form and other less favoured forms with which it comes into competition. Thus extinction and natural selection go hand in hand. Hence, if we look at each species as descended from some unknown form, both the parent and all the transitional varieties will generally have been exterminated by the very process of the formation and perfection of the new form.

  At first he didn’t understand, so he read the words again, and rarely had any so unbalanced to him. He knew it must be their quick succession upon his most appalling interview, but nonetheless, these few words were like the first dashes of a sketch. He recognized an outline, a form, and something in him knew that the ensuing shape would be of great consequence to him.

  But it may be urged that when several closely-allied species inhabit the same territory, we surely ought to find... many transitional forms. Let us take a simple case: in travelling from north to south over a continent, we generally meet... with closely allied or representative species, evidently filling nearly the same place in the natural economy of the land. These representative species often meet and interlock; and as the one becomes rarer and rarer, the other becomes more and more frequent, till the one replaces the other... By my theory these allied species are descended from a common parent; and during the process of modification, each has become adapted to the conditions of life of its own region, and has supplanted and exterminated its original parent-form and all the transitional varieties between its past and present states.

  Could the girl be this new thing, she and her fellow travelers, the Bucks? Would their ways supersede his? If so, they were a transitional form toward what kind of abomination he could not even imagine.

  He sat considering the unthinkable, and it was Virgil Purefoy’s doing, his young clerk who gazed upon him as if at an antique in oils. Perhaps there was malevolence in him equal to that Theodosia only less overtly bloodthirsty. Maybe he, too, was of this new kind. Both of them were guides to godawful fates—she toward the details of why Rufus Buck would writhe at the end of a rope; Purefoy toward Parker’s own death, spiritually crippled with the idea of an unthinkably Godless tomorrow. The words with which Virgil Purefoy had gifted him had, on the most inconsequential brush, warned that his pain would burrow much deeper than the sinew and the bone. Virgil Purefoy would idolatrously march him into hell.

  Dreading, yet unable to stop himself, as if carrying out a sentence for crimes pronounced on him by God, he turned to the book and he began to read.

  ~ ~ ~

  On advice from Lucky and Lewis Davis, Rufus took the money he had received from selling liquor a few bottles at a time to blacksmith Joshua Garrett. On receiving the money from Rufus, Garrett provided three cases of brown whiskey in plain bottles that had been mixed with creek water and seasoned with chiles, tobacco, and a touch of strychnine to give it a much-appreciated kick. Rufus, Maoma, Sam, Lewis and Luckey loaded the crates onto a cart borrowed from John Buck’s farm and headed for Okmulgee with visions of riches to come. Luckey and Lewis took every step alongside the cart as one step closer to their dream. Maoma imagined himself the dandy—fine clothes, silver belt buckle and matching money clip, a ruffled, painted lady on his arm and not a man in the Territory to challenge him. For Rufus, this old horse and meager cart was the first conveyance on the beginning of a journey that would take him to extraordinary places. Sam, Maoma’s shadow—he dreamt no dreams.

  Rufus took a hearty stock of liquor and the promise of more to Okmulgee. Luckey and Lewis carted bottles north toward Tulseytown and Sam and Maoma sold east toward Muskogee. Proceeds were returned to Rufus, and all sat apprehensively at the end of the next day as he counted out the profits, providing a small allowance to each (and a larger one for himself) as he laid the remainder aside for the next stock purchase.

  When the group returned to Joshua Garrett’s shop to double their order, the blacksmith realized he’d underestimated them.

  “I’m gonna hafta charge you two dollars a bottle,” Garrett told them.

  “That’s twice as much,” Rufus complained.

  “I know that, but you orderin’ more.”

  “T
hat don’t make sense. Don’t cost you more.”

  “No. Cost you more.”

  Rufus shook his head. “Uh uh. I ain’t payin’ it,” Rufus insisted. “It ain’t fair.”

  Garrett contemplated the boy for a while, then broke a smile. “You ain’t too stupid. Gotta respect that. Awright. Same price. Six cases.”

  Garrett had never seen anyone hand over money with that big a grin on his face. One quarter of the way back to Okmulgee, Maoma danced beside the cart, boxing the air in triumph over his leader’s negotiating skill.

  “We showed him. He said, ‘You ain’t stupid, huh.’ He the stupid one thinkin’ we gonna pay twice the money for the same liquor. Not the Rufus Buck Gang.” The lumbering Sam occasionally hopped and hooted a chorus, but the rest smilingly let Maoma shout their pride. It was more than enough.

  Again they set up shop in Okmulgee, stretching out north and east. The liquor was moving and the money was flowing. Rufus even took a page out of Joshua Garrett’s book and raised his price. Walking the Okmulgee streets, Deputy Marshal John Garrett stopped Rufus, who smiled conspiratorially.

  “I guess I don’t need to set you up with no liquor, him bein’ your brother an’ all,” said Rufus.

  “Come over here boy,” Garrett ordered as he walked to a side street. Rufus followed.

  “You owe me money,” Garrett said.

  “I already paid your brother.”

  “You ain’t paid me for not arrestin’ you.”

  “Your brother sold me the goddamned whiskey,” Rufus yelled in outrage. Garrett slammed him up against a nearby wall. One big hand pressed on Rufus’ chest, the other rifled his pockets, pulling bills and coins when he found them. Furious, Rufus lunged, knocking Garrett away and leaping on him like a cat to claw the cash back from his thieving hands. Equally infuriated, Garrett hurled him face-down on the ground and dropped his knee and all of his considerable weight on the boy’s back as he handcuffed him.

  “You’re under arrest,” he grinned as he yanked Rufus to his feet.

  Rufus was taken to the jailhouse in Muskogee, where he expected trial before the Indian Court. Throughout the trip he shouted invectives at Deputy John Garrett, calling him a whiskey peddler and a thief, chiding his blacksmith brother for collusion and occasionally impugning their mother’s virtue. At the jail house, surrounded by lawmen, he told his tale and shouted for justice until he was hoarse with it.

  Rufus didn’t know that Joshua Garrett sold liquor to most of the deputies of the Muskogee district. The lawmen paid him no mind.

  Hearing of Rufus’ arrest, Luckey and Lewis took the wagon to Muskogee while Maoma and Sam stole a horse to make the trip. They bribed a deputy to let them see Rufus who captivated them with the tale of his epic battle with Marshal Garrett (in which he almost prevailed) and the subsequent injustices he’d suffered since his arrest.

  “We’ll tell ‘em what happened.” Maoma insisted. “When they take you to the court, we’ll say his own brother sol’ us the liquor.”

  “You boys travelin’ to Arkansas?” an eavesdropping deputy said, “’cause that’s where they takin’ him.”

  “What for?” Rufus asked.

  “Trial. What else?”

  “They got a court right here.”

  “Not for whiskey. Not no more. Send ‘em all to Ft. Smith. That’s where he goin’ for trial,” the deputy assured. “Judge Isaac Parker hisself gonna do the honors—an’ he ain’t so soft on whiskey.”

  The subsequent silence and long faces mirrored the shattering of all of their plans, schemes and dreams. Seeing the fear and trepidation in his men, Rufus drew them close and spoke in a whisper that the deputy couldn’t hear.

  “You all get ready while I’m gone,” he told them. “We’re gonna protect ourselves. No one’s gonna take our money. Get yourself some guns and some horses and wait for me.”

  All four shook their heads in assent. Each barely met Rufus’ gaze before marching solemnly from the jailhouse. Once they had left, Rufus considered the difference between the local trial and imprisonment and their Ft. Smith equivalents. He would have known the judges in Muskogee or they’d have known his Daddy. He didn’t know a soul in Ft. Smith, but he kept hearing the words, “Fort Smith,” and then “Judge Parker” crept in. “Smith” “Parker” and the realization expanded like a butterfly’s new wings. He slammed both palms against the rickety bars and surprised himself with the violent din.

  “Whatchu doin’ in there,” the deputy hollered.

  Rufus didn’t answer. He grabbed one fist in the other to keep them still. He knew what Ft. Smith meant. He remembered why the name was so almighty powerful. The knowledge settled on his heart like a Fatherly hand. He could not have wished for a more portentous sign.

  Cherokee Bill was waiting to die at Ft. Smith.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What you jawin’ about out there?” Bill hollered, curious about Starr’s mutterings outside his cell. At the lack of reply he yelled, “Talkin’ how the white man done you wrong?” Bill didn’t even open his eyes as he goaded Starr.

  “An interesting young man of the Negro and Creek persuasion,” Starr answered as he entered the cell. Starr thoughtlessly positioned himself on Bill’s cot. He propped his head against the wall near Bill’s stockinged feet and set his boots near Bill’s head. Bill, eyes still closed, matter-of-factly flung the boots and the legs attached to them to the ground. After seeking a comfortable position without elevating his feet, Starr reluctantly sat upright. He pulled the makings of a cigarette from his vest pockets and began to roll.

  “Why can’t you chew it like everyone else.”

  Starr ignored him.

  “Who was it you were preachin’ at?”

  “A fan of yours. He’s read all about you.”

  “He reads?”

  “Uh huh. Wants to meet you.”

  Bill chuckled.

  “I think you should,” Starr replied.

  Bill knew that Starr made few moves without calculating their potential benefit—to himself. “What do you get outta me meetin’ him?”

  It was Starr’s turn to laugh. “Bill, you make me sound downright selfish, and that ain’t the case.”

  “Oh no not you,” Bill mumbled.

  A flash of hurt crossed Starr’s face so quickly that only Bill would have noticed, had he been looking.

  “Anyway,” Starr recovered, “I don’t know what for. He’s a boy. Beat the shit outta some big fucker upstairs. Got Trustee just so he could come down here and moon at you. He wants somethin’. I don’t know what. Don’t know if he knows. But he don’t seem stupid and sounds like he’d cut off an arm for Cherokee Bill. Might be useful.” Starr drew heavily on his cigarette. “Got some Turkish to go in here… smooth.” He stared appreciatively at the smoke rising from the lit tip.

  “How’s it chew?”

  Henry scowled. “You will never be a gentleman, Bill.”

  “You just smell sweeter ‘n me, Henry, that’s all.”

  “Wet dogs smell sweeter ‘n you, Bill.” Both men laughed. Starr puffed on his cigarette. Bill closed his eyes.

  “Parker sentenced me to die twice,” Starr mused,” and twice the Supreme Court said I get to live. I’m waitin’ on my third trial and the way I see it, Parker is hell bent to kill me. And Bill, I smell too good to hang.”

  “I got a month before I die,” Bill said.

  “You worry ‘bout dyin?”

  “I worry about not dyin.’”

  Ever since the angelic visitation of his youth, Rufus had felt propelled to some uncharted place. The world that he saw around him, the world to which Callahan had tried to immerse him at the Wealaka Mission School, the world at which his mother quietly railed, they were not his worlds. He knew that. They were not his rightful home. There was another. He sensed it in the tales of outlaws, the wild miles they traveled and free lives they led. The men who owned the artifacts precious to his struck-dumb father had lived in such worlds. He knew that in his bones. It w
as his world. He just had to find it. After his talk with Henry Starr, Rufus felt enormous relief. He felt himself closer to someone whom, he imagined, had been there and who could show him the way.

  When he next encountered Henry Starr, Rufus answered Starr’s questions while struggling to hide the fact that he was scared. What if he gave a wrong answer and Bill refused to meet him? He swore to say as little as possible.

  “Where’re your Ma and Pa?”

  “Near Tulseytown.”

  “Your Daddy Creek?”

  Rufus shook his head in the affirmative.

  “Lotsa white folks all around Tulseytown.”

  “My Ma says ain’t nothing to do ‘bout ‘em.”

  “You know it’s white folks landed me in jail for things I never done.”

  Rufus looked quizzically at him. “Ain’t you white?”

  Starr’s countenance turned mockingly dark. “You blind, boy?” Rufus shrunk back until Starr smiled. “My Uncle was the great Cherokee Sam Starr, who inspired Belle Starr.”

  “The Bandit Queen,” Rufus beamed, reciting her dime story tag.

  “Yep,” Starr boasted. “That’s who I am.”

  Rufus was floating in his boots to be talking with a relative of Belle Starr.

  “I ain’t no white man,” Starr insisted. Rufus gaped in mute appreciation. It was the first time he had heard such a statement as a boast. From every previous mouth, Creek, Negro or white, being white had been regarded as a point of power and pride.

  “You don’t like white folks,” Rufus stated.

  Starr smiled. “Nobody likes white folks,” he said. “White folks don’t like white folks.”

  Gaining courage, Rufus asked, “Then how come they let so many in the Territory.”

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “I was kiddin’ about everyone not likin’ ‘em. White folks is awfully fond o’ themselves. They think everything belongs to them that someone else won’t kill ‘em for takin.’”